Repetition
by Iridian's Legacy
Summary: "He had never really gotten the chance to miss her." Cycles and cycles and cycles never-ending. A short oneshot about the Doctor finally having the time to miss Rose.


I have recently been sucked into the world of Doctor Who. I am now on Season 3 and still cannot get over the fact that Rose is gone.

**PLEASE RESPECT WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A FANGIRL/BOY AND DO NOT SPOIL ANYTHING FOR ME. I AM USING BOLD AND UNDERLINED LETTERS FOR GOODNESS' SAKE.**

Moving on, this is a sort of depressing oneshot about the Doctor missing Rose Tyler after the episode "The Runaway Bride." Please enjoy!

[Insert unnecessary disclaimer here]

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He had never really gotten the chance to miss her. I had all happened so fast, one event after horrible, heartbreaking event, and there was no time to miss her.

Not mourn; just miss.

"Her name was Rose." His voice only betrayed a crack, barely audible, then he shut the door to the TARDIS.

Inviting Donna aboard had not been part of the plan. It truly was a spur-of-the-moment type of thing, brought on by an onslaught of crippling emotions. He made his way to the controls and set them. To where, he didn't discover until he got there, for his mind morphed into that always beautiful, swirling abomination of thoughts and fog the moment the door had locked. He was just going through the motions, twisting knobs, adjusting dials, pulling and releasing air through his fleshy vessel of a body, never giving a second thought as to what it was all for anymore.

What _was_ it all for?

This made him pause. What did he have to look forward to at his next stop? A new alien race? A galaxy he had not visited at least once already? Bearing witness to countless more slaughters and the demise of numberless planets? What was there, out there, in this vast universe, that he, the Doctor, had not laid eyes upon before?

And the more he thought about it, the more time his packed brain spent fermenting in its own chaotic froth, the harder he found it to answer such a question.

The hum of the ship massaged the palms of his hands as they rested against the instrument panel, vibrating his tired arms. The heartbeat of his beloved ship synched his own two beating clocks, and their rhythm ached. The pulsing blue column before him locked his gaze, sealing his watery eyes on a cylinder of energy and glass. Up and down. Up and down. Up. Down...up...down...

Universe...peril...safety...death...travel...death...comfort...misfortune...death...loss...death...

The eternal cycle of a Time Lord.

Except now...there would be no more loss. There would be no more danger, or sacrifice, or peril. Every trip he took from now on would be empty, meaningless. What was it all for?

And something like a stone plummeted through his chest, down, down, down, and landed at his feet. The Doctor followed. His legs went weak and snapped like lead beneath his granite torso. With a thud he slumped down onto the floor, twisting so his back was against the core. A worn out rag doll of a Time Lord lounged as he traveled through time and space for the millionth time, defeated for the first time.

It started as a sputtering, breathy battle to resist. He tried to catch the first sob in his throat, and held it there with a breath, as if sorrow is a butterfly to be caught in a net and contained. But, like a sponge, it absorbed the following gasps that shot up from his lungs in rapid-fire bursts: a suffocating, airy mass of suppressed misery. Crying was not in his nature, and it was not that he saw tears as a sign of weakness, but, rather, a white flag. He put up an honorable fight, though, countering with deep inhales and the recollection of fond and glorious moments, but these were just kindling for the fire: the smell of pink and blonde and adventure were still fresh in his nostrils; warm (sometimes trembling) skin still pressed to his palms while he consoled his frightened companion—though he began to realize that it was often quite the other way around; laughter still sang in his ears—oh! What laughter!-only to be spliced by a dreadful cry.

The last cry.

The last sound he would here from her in person.

_I love you._

Valiantly, the Doctor surrendered, gagging, and squeaked out the first shaky breath. His fingers quaked in unison with his chest as the gasps came in quickened intervals through his trembling lips, wet with drops of saliva, spewed with his exhales. Tremors assaulted his body, shudders and shivers, and empty air found a voice in the sound of unblemished sorrow. The Doctor wept bitterly.

They grew louder, and he was not ashamed. They found length, and he was not ashamed, for there was no one left to hear his agony and deride him for such childlike behavior. There was no one to pity him and offer comfort. He was alone. The TARDIS. stood on whatever planet he had sent himself off to, a million light-years away from the Milky Way, or perhaps just a couple of feet from where it sat last in the snow. Perhaps he was in the middle of an ocean, a land completely void of life, or packed to the brim with it—he didn't know. Neither did he care, because the fact of the matter was that he was completely and utterly alone...

Again.

And this made him snap: "No!" The plea reverberated off the walls of his ship until it could not live with the sound of its own voice and slowly died. The TARDIS grew cold and large, as if the walls were afraid of the man lying at its center. He rocked slowly from side to side, back and forth, forwards and backwards, like a madman. His hands, shaking as bad as they were, came to his face only to hover over his hot and soaking cheeks and grasp his dark hair, slamming down in fists on the grated floor moments later.

Sob, No!, breath, shake, slam, pull, No!, weep, fade.

Over and over and over and over again.

Twist, pull, adjust, land, mystery, peril, death, safety.

Over and over and over and over again.

The cycle never ended. No matter how many life changing events he went through; no matter what type of danger he welcomed or avoided; no matter how many countermeasures he took; no matter what he did to try and save as many lives as possible; no matter what, every day ended in blood and sorrow and loss.

And he would lose those he held most dear to heart. The Time War was just the spark, and it all just seemed to fall apart from there. He had lost his family, his friends, his planet, his species, and his lover. There was an aching hole punched through his chest, smack between those two hearts of his that made him care too much. Why did he invite Donna aboard? Because he was trapped in the cycle: lose, replace, care, land, danger, death, lose. It was nothing more than a reflex to emptiness.

Yet how could he consider Rose a default? How could he think her a replaceable plasma to fill his longing soul, when what he felt with her had been so _real_? He would never have admitted outright to her that he had fallen in love before, and each new love felt like the final, the only, and the answer to a lifetime of solitude, but the one thing he wished he would have screamed from the rooftops was that, this time, he had truly felt whole again. She broke the cycle; she was the outlier in an endless stream of constants! Love loss love loss living love. How could he possibly think that someone else could step in for Rose Tyler, the love of two lives?

"I'm sorry...oh my—I'm so sorry..." he sobbed. He was sorry for not keeping her safe. He was sorry for being so selfish and inviting her aboard, all to give his lonely soul someone to be with. "It's my fault, it's all my fault..." He was sorry for putting her in danger. He finally realized just how stupid it was of him to put someone so precious as she on the line, day after day, never knowing if they would make it out together. Look where that carelessness got him.

Upon the thought he struck his own head against the instrument panel and felt no pain, screaming at himself for thinking something so terrible...but he almost wished that Rose were dead.

At least then he would know where she was; that she was never to be harmed again; there would be a place for him to visit, to lay flowers and speak to his love and know that she was safe; then, the gaping chasm in his chest would know that it was time to move on. But he could not. The knowledge that he would never lay eyes upon the one person who had ever made him genuinely happy was torture, and there would be no recovery from her loss.

The air grew still. The Doctor's face was sticky and damp, his hair in no better condition. His legs felt weak and his hearts, heavy. What was it all for? He locked eyes with thin air and answered to himself, _She was._

Missing Rose was not a ceremony, not an event with a set start and end time. It was a continuous process, never ending. He tried not to dwell on her, and he tried not to forget. A different cycle, but a cycle all the same.

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This oneshot sent me into a spiraling depression so if you enjoyed it, you're welcome (:

If not: eh, whatever, we all have different tastes and you're welcome anyway (:

For those of you following Dog Fight, I'm so sorry, but I have been so bloody busy that it is far from the top of my priority list. However, I am working on it now and you shouldn't have to wait long!

Please review! It helps me out so much!


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